


Darkest Before Dawn

by Antheas_Blackberry, Lavender_and_Vanilla



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Angst with a Happy Ending, Don't copy to another site, Explicit Sexual Content, Ignoring the scene with Lady Smallwood completely, M/M, Post-Episode: s04e03 The Final Problem, mystrade
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-16
Updated: 2019-08-03
Packaged: 2020-06-29 08:58:43
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 6,218
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19826815
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Antheas_Blackberry/pseuds/Antheas_Blackberry, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lavender_and_Vanilla/pseuds/Lavender_and_Vanilla
Summary: Mycroft Holmes and Greg Lestrade finally admit their feelings for each other, but as they decide to move forward with their relationship the events of the The Final Problem occur. Greg attempts to make good on his promise to Sherlock, but Mycroft has other demons to face.





	1. Fill my heart with joy and make my soul sing

**Author's Note:**

  * For [vinesnweeds](https://archiveofourown.org/users/vinesnweeds/gifts).



> For vinesnweeds who so kindly bid on our work for FTH2019. Thank you for your generosity. We hope this suits. <3

Greg supposed he was a little drunk. It was no wonder given the pre dinner scotch, the bottle of wine with dinner, the after dinner brandy and now, back at Mycroft’s, an Irish Coffee was on offer. It was like they were celebrating. Well, maybe they were. Sherlock was out of the hospital. John was talking to Sherlock again. Culverton-Smith was in jail. He and Mycroft had dinner just to catch each other up and their meal definitely had a festive air about it. They had smiled and laughed. He hadn’t seen Mycroft laugh since Mary died. It had been too long. 

Greg watched Mycroft come back from the kitchen carrying a tray with the coffees and biscuits. Damn the man was beautiful. Mycroft’s cheeks were a bit flushed with drink. In deference to feeling warm the jacket had been abandoned and his sleeves rolled up while in the kitchen. Mycroft set the tray on the coffee table and sat down next to Greg. In the low light from the fireplace Greg caught a glimpse of ginger hair and freckles on Mycroft’s forearms. He stared at them as Mycroft passed over Greg’s coffee. 

Mycroft sat back and draped his arm across the back of the sofa and angled himself to look at Greg. He held his coffee in his other hand. They sipped their coffees, each watching the other. Greg nodded his appreciation as he swallowed. “Ta. This is lovely.” Greg stared directly into Mycroft’s eyes as he spoke. He hoped Mycroft saw he wasn’t just talking about the coffee. He leaned forward to set his coffee on the table. When he sat back he was closer to Mycroft. It had to be all the booze that was making him feel so bold. 

Mycroft’s gaze dropped and his lashes fluttered at Greg’s compliment. Greg smiled at the blatantly coquettish expression. Feeling braver still he put his hand on Mycroft’s bare forearm. Greg gently stroked the soft skin feeling the fine hair under his fingers. Mycroft tilted his head to watch Greg pet his arm. A small smile played on his lips as he raised his cup to take a sip. Greg focused his attention on Mycroft’s arm. 

“So many freckles and I think your body hair is ginger.” Greg turned to look at Mycroft his hand never stopping its caresses of Mycroft’s arm. “You dye your hair. Why?”

Mycroft set his cup on the coffee table. “Flaming red hair is not inconspicuous and my job performance isn’t enhanced by being conspicuous.”

“That’s a shame. Gingers are gorgeous.”

Mycroft blushed and averted his eyes, but he didn’t pull away from the contact. Greg felt small goose bumps spring up under his fingers. Mycroft took a deep breath before he spoke, placing one of his hands over Greg’s. “Gregory,” Mycroft whispered, bringing Greg’s hand to his lips and gently kissing the soft skin.

Greg could feel his arousal increasing. Still emboldened, he caressed Mycroft’s flushed cheek with the hand that had just been the subject of attention. He watched with rapt attention as Mycroft’s pupils dilated before he pulled the younger man closer and kissed him.

Mycroft’s lips were soft and tasted like the finest aged whiskey, with the faintest hint of coffee. Greg’s attention soon turned to continuing and deepening the kiss, feeling Mycroft reciprocate. Long, elegant fingers delicately covered Greg’s short, blunt ones.

They finally had to part to catch their breath, and they giggled childishly at each other, foreheads pressed together, fingers intertwined.

“That was nice,” Greg said.

“Only nice?” Mycroft pretended to be offended.

“God no, but I’m afraid if I said what I really thought you’d run.”

“I’ll not run.”

“Those kisses fill my heart with joy and make my soul sing.” Greg’s eyes were dark and serious. “Want to run?”

“Only into your arms.” Came Mycroft’s steady reply. 

“Christ Mycroft,” Greg breathed. 

They kissed with utter abandon, each clutching the other’s clothes. Pulling and gripping shirttails free so hot hands could caress even hotter skin. Greg felt lost in the sensations of being held, petted and stroked. It had been too long since he had felt touches given so lovingly. 

Greg was the one that broke the rhythm. Gasping he leaned his head against Mycroft’s shoulder feeling the other rub a cheek against his hair. “Jesus…” he murmured as he caught his breath.

Mycroft hummed. “You feel divine.” His hands had pushed Greg’s shirt up high and his thumbs brushed over Greg’s nipples causing shivers down Greg’s back. 

“I want you so much right now.” Greg whispered.

“But…” Mycroft buried his face into Greg’s neck he sucked softly at the other man’s pulse point.

Greg groaned as his heart rate accelerated further. “But I want to do this right.”

Mycroft stopped and sat back to look at Greg. Greg stared back, desire burning in his dark eyes. “This isn’t drunken lust for me, Mycroft, and I don’t want there to be any mistake about that.”

“It isn’t for me either Gregory.” Mycroft’s reply was soft but intense.

The smile bestowed on Mycroft lit the room and the recipient basked in its glow. “Good. I’d hoped you felt the same. I want to take you out on a proper date at least. I hope that’s okay with you.” Greg searched Mycroft’s face anxiously.

“Of course,” Mycroft nodded. “You’re right. I’m not a casual man and my interest in you tonight isn’t fueled by alcohol. I’ve waited long enough for things to feel settled with Sherlock to finally let you know what I’ve been feeling. I can wait another day or two.”

Greg was relieved. “Good…” he kissed Mycroft softly, chastely. “Good.”

“But only a day or two.” Though Mycroft spoke seriously, his eyes twinkled with humor.

Greg chuckled. “How about this weekend? Sunday? I have to work Saturday.”

“Sunday would be acceptable, though it is four days from now.”

“Do you think a few more kisses might tide you over?”

“Perhaps if they’re exceptionally good ones.” Mycroft teased.

“C’mere you.” Greg tugged Mycroft to him. “Mm.. Coffee and whiskey,” he mumbled. “You’re delicious.”

* * *

_Saturday night..._

* Forgive me I will not be able to meet tomorrow. A family emergency has arisen. --MH *

* Sure. Is Sherlock okay? --GL *

* Do you need anything? --GL *

* Sherlock is fine. I don’t need anything. Thank you for asking. --MH *

_Sunday morning..._

* I heard about the explosion at Sherlock’s flat. Is he okay? --GL *

* No one has seen or heard from Sherlock or John. Do you know where they are? --GL *

* I just need to know if everyone’s okay. Please answer. --GL *

* Mycroft? Are you okay? --GL *


	2. He's not as strong as he thinks he is.

After nearly forty-eight hours of fear, anxiety, and distress Greg had never been more relieved than when he heard from a colleague in the north that the illustrious Sherlock Holmes was asking for him. That is, except for the moment he was allowed to speak with Mycroft on the phone. Despite Mycroft’s reassurances, Greg wasn’t convinced all was well. Sherlock’s request convinced Greg Mycroft was definitely not fine.

He was too worried about Mycroft to pay much mind to the turbulence of the helicopter ride. Sherlock called him Greg. Sherlock asked him to look after Mycroft. He could not imagine what had happened to his friend, near lover, that would have brought Sherlock to ask. To ask and use his given name. 

Greg glanced at the other passengers, the guards and Eurus. She stared straight ahead her gaze unfocused and glassy. A secret sister. A secret psychotic sister. It boggled the mind. Eurus must have felt his gaze. She turned her cold, unseeing eyes towards him. Greg looked away and out the small window next to him. He’d no desire to engage with her in any way. 

The helicopter landed and Eurus was led off, greeted by Lady Smallwood and still more guards. She departed placidly with them into the bowels of the fortress. Greg watched a safe distance away and when the crowd had cleared he found Mycroft standing alone near the entrance. He was bundled in a heavy coat that was far too big for him. It made him look small and forlorn. Greg’s heart ached and he hurried over. 

“Mycroft,” he breathed. The urge to ask if the man was all right dissipated immediately. It was clear Mycroft was not all right. ‘A bit shaken’ was what was he said on the phone earlier. Now Greg could see the outright lie it was. 

Mycroft was shivering in the oversized coat. There was the faint smell of sweat when the breeze died down and his hair and skin appeared greasy. “Gregory,” Mycroft’s eyes were glassy and his words slightly slurred. “You needn’t have come.”

_“He’s not as strong as he thinks he is.”_

Sherlock’s request echoed in Greg’s mind. “Yeah, I really think I did.”

“I assure you I’m quite--”

“Exhausted, half drugged, and in shock.” In a softer, kinder voice Greg added, “It’s me Mycroft. You don’t have to be all right. I don’t expect you to be. No one does.” He cautiously reached out and touched Mycroft’s shoulder. Little by little Greg coaxed Mycroft into his arms. Mycroft stood stiffly in Greg’s embrace for a moment and then slowly relaxed. They stood there for several long moments before Greg gently pulled away. “Come on. Let’s get you home.” With one arm still around Mycroft, Greg guided him to the waiting helicopter.

The trip back was uneventful. In the helicopter Mycroft sat close to Greg holding his hand, never breaking contact. But when they landed Mycroft pulled away. He walked away from the helicopter quickly leaving Greg trailing behind. They climbed into the waiting black sedan and Mycroft turned away to stare out the window. Greg could see tremors run through Mycroft’s body. Unsure of his role, Greg sat quietly and watched Mycroft. When they arrived at Mycroft’s home, hands shaking he tried to open the car door, too impatient to wait for the driver. Greg reached over and opened the door.

Mycroft scrambled out, again leaving Greg to catch up. The front door stalled Mycroft’s escape. He was still trembling, whether it was from shock or cold or both. It took Mycroft several tries but he still failed to get his keys in the lock. “Let me,” Greg murmured, taking the keys from him and letting them both inside. Mycroft made a beeline to the study. Greg hurried after him to find Mycroft downing a double scotch.

Wordlessly, Greg poured himself a smaller measure and took a sip, feeling the liquid burn all the way down, warming him from the inside. He watched, worriedly, as Mycroft poured himself another large drink. Mycroft drank half of it down, and then unsteadily, put the glass on the table. 

Mycroft’s hands were still shaking; his entire body was trembling. Greg could see that the younger man was close to falling apart, so he decided he would do what he could to keep Mycroft from crumbling before him. He moved closer and placed a hand over Mycroft’s attempting to still the tremors. “You’re freezing!” Greg exclaimed as he held Mycroft’s icy fingers. “Let’s get you cleaned up and then I’ll make you a cup of tea and a bite to eat. Yeah?” 

“No. I’ll be fine with just the whiskey.” Mycroft picked up his drink again and finished it.

Greg frowned but refrained from commenting. “A shower then,” he said firmly. Glassy-eyed Mycroft turned to look at Greg. “It’ll warm you up.” Greg coaxed. He wanted to get Mycroft away from the liquor. He wasn’t sure it was good to mix the booze with the tranquilizers still running through Mycroft’s system.

Mycroft allowed Greg to lead him out of the room and up the stairs to his bedroom. Greg was a bit nervous upon entering Mycroft’s private domain, but gave the younger man a soft, gentle smile. “Wait here.” Greg settled Mycroft on the edge of the enormous bed and ducked into the bathroom to start the water running in the shower. “I’ll go make you that tea while you get cleaned up.” Greg hadn’t given up on getting food into the man. He gently caressed Mycroft’s face to reassure him.

Mycroft quickly pressed his hand over Greg’s own. “Please, don’t go,” Mycroft whispered.

Greg swallowed hard, but did not remove his hand. He watched Mycroft’s pupils dilate, the arousal evident there in his cerulean blue eyes. 

“Mycroft,” he began, hesitantly.

“Gregory, _please_ ,” he implored. “ _Please_.” Mycroft stood and moved forward, closing the distance between them.

Greg cupped Mycroft’s cheek with a tender but hesitant hand before allowing himself to kiss the younger man. Mycroft’s lips parted, inviting Greg in. Their embrace deepened and continued, growing more passionate. Soft groans trickled out between nips and kisses. 

Under the cover of intimate touches Greg began to unbutton what was left of Mycroft’s gorgeous wool suit. It was torn and dirty in places and Greg wanted him free of any traces of the ordeal. The normally fastidious man must have been overwhelmed by what had happened to him physically and mentally. Greg wanted to do all he could to help heal those wounds. 

“I’m afraid it’s ruined.” Greg remarked sadly as he set the suit aside. Mycroft only grunted.

Greg gently ran his hands along each limb; taking his time to make sure Mycroft had not been physically harmed. There were a few minor bruises and scrapes, which Greg was relieved to see that there was nothing more. The ones he couldn’t see, were the ones he needed to worry about, he thought to himself. Softly, he kissed Mycroft, allowing his lips to linger. 

“Let’s get you cleaned up.” Greg urged Mycroft into the en suite.

With Greg’s tender kiss still on his lips, Mycroft, free of the ruined clothing, entered the large shower. Reluctantly, Greg had released the younger man from his arms to allow Mycroft to clean himself. Following an impulse Greg removed his own clothing, tossing his shirt and trousers haphazardly to the floor. He then slipped into the shower; as Mycroft rinsed his hair, soap suds cascading down his long, lithe body. 

He had no idea Mycroft was so lean under those suits. And the freckles! His body was covered liberally in them, especially where he had obviously allowed the sun to roam across his body. His arms and chest were covered in a patina of honey coloured freckles and he wanted to lick and count every last one of them. Greg’s gaze continued down towards Mycroft’s hard, heavy arousal, and he felt the heat pool low in his abdomen, feeling his own body come to life.

Greg could see Mycroft was watching him with interest; despite the alcohol the man had rapidly consumed he missed nothing and his eager eyes watched, as Greg grew hard in front of him. He couldn’t help the smirk that appeared across his face.

Greg moved under the water, allowing it to run over his body. He ran a hand through his hair, pushing his silver fringe off his forehead. His actions were measured, giving Mycroft time; he didn’t want to rush him, no matter how much he wanted to take him there and then. Doubt still niggled at him that progressing their relationship now wasn’t the best choice.

“Mycroft, are you. . . “

Greg never finished his sentence, as Mycroft reached forward, pulling Greg closer and kissing him. While Greg was concerned, given what Mycroft had been through earlier, it was clear that the younger man knew his own mind and he was quickly lost in the increasingly desperate kisses and moans.

“Are you sure?” Greg panted between kisses.

Mycroft sucked hard on Greg’s lower lip and whined.

He could feel Mycroft’s erection pressed between them and Greg slipped a hand down, taking them both in a firm grip. Mycroft moaned loudly and it echoed off the walls of the shower. He stepped back and his backside smacked against the tiled wall as he surrendered to Greg’s touch.

Greg licked a stripe up Mycroft’s neck, pausing to nip at his pulse point. Mycroft trembled under the touch. He trembled even harder when Greg’s thumb ran over the head of his cock, and he moaned again. “Gregory more, please.”

Greg chuckled, his laugh echoing off the walls of the shower. He pulled Mycroft closer and kissed him deeply, nipping, biting at his lower lip. He traced his fingers through his short, dark hair and then continued, the ghosting of a touch down the long, elegant neck and further down his back. He sketched patterns on his skin until Mycroft was shuddering under the touch and then he returned his attention to the younger man’s hardness, sliding his hand over it, gently and swiping his thumb over the slit. He grinned to see Mycroft nearly rendered boneless. This elicited another moan that went directly to Greg’s cock; he picked up the tempo, their cocks leaking and slick in his palm.

“Mycroft,” he whispered before pulling him into another kiss. His voice was so tender, so kind, that with a few more strokes, Mycroft was coming hard over Greg’s hand. He pressed his forehead into Greg’s chest, resting as Greg released his spent cock. Mycroft slid his hand around Greg’s taut erection. Greg groaned as their hands joined, and then slid with ease around Greg’s length. 

Their eyes met, and Greg kissed Mycroft for all he was worth, forcing him to use both hands to brace himself against the shower wall. Mycroft pushed back and Greg broke away panting with want. He watched as Mycroft grinned predatorily reaching down to stroke Greg’s straining erection, his long fingers skillful and soft, until Greg finally came with a gasp.

They stood there under the shower for a few moments, letting their heart rates regulate back to normal and the warm water rinse away the remainder of their love making. Greg pulled Mycroft close and kissed him softly, then leaned back with a smile. Mycroft returned a sloppy grin. Languidly he turned the shower off. 

Between the two of them, they were able to dry off and collapse naked into Mycroft’s bed, high thread count sheets and all. Greg once again pulled Mycroft close. He tucked Mycroft head under his chin. It was not long until the younger man, sated from the orgasm, fell asleep.


	3. It's 5 o'clock somewhere.

Mycroft woke with a pounding head and a bone-dry mouth. He cracked an eye and noted it was still dark. The clock on the bedside table indicated it was just gone 7 am. Mycroft’s bladder signaled its need and he carefully rose from the bed. Now vertical, he could add dizzy and nauseated to the list of his woes. He carefully made his way to the toilet to relieve himself. There he was able to drink some water, which helped the headache and dizziness. 

It felt for all the world like a hangover, but he couldn’t remember the last time he had one of those. Alcohol barely made him buzzed these days. He rubbed absently at his neck and remembered the sting of the dart. Drugged, he thought. Why had he been drugged?

Returning to his bedroom Mycroft was startled by the sight of another figure in his bed. Squinting in the dark Mycroft was able to make out the shape of a man. Creeping towards the bed staring, Mycroft was stunned to realize Greg Lestrade was in his bed. Like a dam breaking, the events of last night came back to him in a flood. 

Mycroft broke out in a cold sweat. This wasn’t how it was supposed to have happened. It wasn’t how he planned it. There was to be courting and flirting. Long dinners with followed by walks along the river discreetly holding hands. He had thought there would be nights of kissing and heavy petting before they moved on to the intimacy of sex. Instead he succumbed to the base need for comfort and safety. Mycroft nearly moaned aloud. How pathetic he must have been. 

Mycroft wanted a drink. 

Memories of the events of Sherrinford now burst forth. Mycroft spent hours locked in Eurus’s cell and could still smell the blood and feces from the governor’s body; David’s body. He watched the water fill the well John had been imprisoned in. He watched as John pulled the bones from the water. From then on he no longer knew what to hope for. He wished Sherlock had killed him. He’d hoped Sherlock would never remember Redbeard or Eurus. He certainly hoped never to reveal the existence of Eurus to Greg. Greg was separate, his escape from that part of his life. He didn’t want their relationship to be tainted by Eurus or Sherrinford. Now it was tainted, everything in his life was tainted. 

Mycroft really wanted a drink.

Greg shifted in his sleep. Mycroft was seized with overwhelming panic. He didn’t want to be seen like this--bedraggled, emotionally and physically exhausted. Mycroft didn’t want to see the pity in Greg’s eyes. Or worse. The loss of respect and desire that was sure to follow the display of weakness and need Mycroft had demonstrated last night. 

Greg reached towards the empty side of the bed. He raised his head blinking sleepily. “M’crof?”

“Ah… I just.... Needed the facilities.” Mycroft whispered, stuttering. 

“‘Kay,” Greg lay back down.

Mycroft needed a drink. 

Mycroft grabbed his robe and his mobile and fled the bedroom to the kitchen. Heart racing, he tried to think. How to escape this situation? He needed distance and time to fix what had been royally fucked. He left a note saying he’d been called into work. Then he crept to his office and locked himself in. 

Mycroft stood with his back to the door leaning against it and listening. The house was quiet. He stared at the cut crystal decanter of whiskey that sat on the table along the wall near his desk. It was too early, he told himself. It’s 5 o’clock somewhere, the devil on his shoulder replied. Stiffening his resolved, Mycroft walked past the table and seated himself at his desk. 

Work was always a good distraction. He could count on his work to provide him some mental space. Powering up his computer he thought he could answer some emails. Surely his inbox was exploding given how long he’d been incommunicado. 

Or not.

There was only one email. It was from The Committee advising him there would be a debriefing with them in the morning of the following day. Mycroft replied dutifully and logged off. He glanced over to the whiskey glowing darkly in the morning light. What the hell, he thought. He didn’t need to be anywhere until tomorrow. He could spend the day pissed. Who would know? Most of all, who would care?

* * *

Greg awoke alone. Mycroft’s side of the bed was cool. There was no sign of the man and Greg went to the bathroom before starting to look. He called out as he roamed from room to room. All the rooms were empty, but one was locked. Greg presumed it was Mycroft’s office and wasn’t surprised it was off limits, given Mycroft’s “minor position.” In the kitchen, he found a note. Brief and hastily scrawled, it said Mycroft had been called into work. He was unsure when he’d be back. Apologies. Greg pursed his lips and stared at the note thoughtfully. After a moment, he put the note down and went back to the bedroom to clean up and get dressed. 


	4. Thank you for your trouble.

He drank his first glass quickly having decided to drown his misery. The thought of the debriefing filled him with dread. His mind tumbled and twisted around. How could he possibly explain what happened? Never mind why it happened. The burn of the booze was familiar and soothing. Almost before it hit his stomach he could feel his body relax and his mind settle. He focused on the familiar sensations and whispered to himself it would all be okay. No one would get the better of him. He could control it, all of it.

He sipped on his second glass and listened as Greg moved about the house calling for him. He warred with himself to answer and nearly did when Greg tried the handle of his office. He heard the shower in the en suite come on and go off. He heard Greg’s footsteps and then nothing. As if the world pitied him he then heard the soft patter of rain on the window, and nothing else. Mycroft thought bitter thoughts about the world and how it abused him. Unfair, he mused, since he spent so much energy on saving the world.

Mycroft was on his third glass of whiskey. The silence of the house was now oppressive. He jumped as his mobile buzzed. He watched the screen illuminate signaling a call from Greg. The call went unanswered, sent instead to voicemail. Mycroft knocked back the rest of his drink. He figured it was safe to leave his office.

As he stood the room spun and he leaned against his desk. Food, he thought numbly. When had he last eaten, he’d no idea. Stumbling from the office he made his way to the kitchen. There was little in his refrigerator, but he thought there were some crackers in the cabinet. 

“Jesus Christ. You look like shit.”

“Fuck!” Mycroft yelped in fright. He jumped back banging his head against the upper cabinet, one hand clutching his robe. Finally his mind registered the voice. Rubbing his head, he looked up to see the face of Greg Lestrade sitting at his kitchen table. “What in God’s name are you doing in my kitchen?”

“Actually, I thought I might ask you that question, since you were the one that said you’d left. Called in ‘urgently’, your note said.”

Mycroft scowled and turned away to look in his cabinets for the crackers he was sure he still had. “I hoped you’d leave if you thought I wasn’t home.”

“Yeah, I might’ve, except your umbrella was still at the door.” Mycroft silently cursed his oversight. Greg waited for a response that was not coming. “What the fuck, Mycroft?” 

Mycroft found a box of biscuits and opened them, immediately shoving one in his mouth. It was stale. He sat down at the table with his biscuits and looked at Greg. He really didn’t know what to say. He blinked blearily and tried to come up with an answer that would satisfy the man without giving too much away.

“Have you been drinking?”

Surprised, Mycroft swallowed the biscuit. “A bit.” He admitted then shrugged. 

Greg sighed and reached over to snag a biscuit. “Why?”

“I don’t know.” Mycroft pulled another biscuit out and waved it about. “Pick your reason. Recently held hostage and tortured by your psychotic sister. Having to watch your brother be tortured and your colleague murdered. Feeling fairly secure you’ll be fired on the morrow. And then there’s completely bollocking up your only romantic relationship in the last two decades. A relationship you had hoped…” Mycroft’s voice caught and halted. Was that pity in Greg’s eyes? He did not want pity. He did not need pity. 

“Mycroft…” Greg’s voice was soft with concern.

“Why are you still here?” Mycroft asked wearily. His normally bright eyes were dull as they looked at Greg.

“You asked me to stay, remember?” Greg’s gentle reply pushed Mycroft nearly to tears.

Mycroft did remember. It was awful how weak and pathetic he’d been. Mycroft was never the one in need. He always had power, the upper hand. He was the giver. He never asked or pleaded. Mycroft rallied and shook off the urge to weep. “Yes. It was a perfectly lovely shag. Thank you for your trouble.”

Greg jerked like he’d been slapped. “That’s not why I stayed.” Greg snapped. He ran a hand through his hair. The silver strands stood on end. In a softer voice he continued. “What is going on with you? I only want to help.”

“I don’t fucking need your help.” Mycroft snarled belligerently at Greg. “I’m fine!”

Shocked, Greg stared, and then shook his head. He stood. “I’m going to go.”

“Good.” Mycroft grunted.

Greg moved to the door and stopped. “You know when you sober up and start to think clearly you are going to hate yourself about how this conversation went. Try to remember this: I don’t hate you. I’m still your friend. I still want to be more… if that’s what you want.”

Mycroft said nothing and watched Greg leave the kitchen. He listened as the front door opened and then shut. Not surprisingly he didn’t feel any better. He stood and pulled a fresh bottle of whiskey from the cabinet. Unscrewing the cap he thought about getting a glass. Why bother?


	5. You're special to me.

_One month later…_

Greg stood staring glumly at the microwave in his kitchen. The time on its clock ticked down as his dinner slowly warmed through. He was thinking of Mycroft. It was about all he thought of since that morning he walked out of Mycroft’s house. Work would temporarily distract him, but it had been a quiet week so he found his thoughts drifting more and more toward Sherlock’s brother. 

He’d tried calling and texting not long after that morning. No reply and then three weeks ago the number was no longer in service. When he finally got a hold of her, Anthea said only Mycroft was on extended leave. Greg had tried obliquely asking Sherlock when Mycroft would be back. The cryptic answer was not comforting and Greg felt he’d let both Sherlock and Mycroft down. 

The microwave beeped and Greg took out his meal. It was distinctly unappetizing. Contemplating skipping dinner all together, Greg heard a knock on the door of his flat. That was odd. He’d not buzzed anyone in from the outside. Probably the wrong flat. Leaving the kitchenette he went to the door. 

Mycroft stood in the hallway. He looked unsure of his welcome. But if Greg was being honest, the man was looking better than he had in years.

“Inspector, may I come in?” 

Grinning with relief, Greg couldn’t help but correct him. “Greg.”

Mycroft gave a small, sad smile. “Of course. Greg.”

“Yeah, sure.” Greg stepped back allowing Mycroft into his small flat. He grabbed his jacket off the couch and offered to take Mycroft’s coat. 

Hanging up the outerwear gave Greg a moment to collect himself. Mycroft looked… great. His hair had grown out a bit, still colored brown, but now he was sporting a ginger scruff, with a rare fleck of white here and there. The turtleneck jumper and khaki trousers fit him well. The puffiness in his face was gone, sharpening his features. 

“You’re… you’re looking well.” Greg started after they’d seated themselves on opposite ends of the sofa. He was relieved to see the defeated, dead look in Mycroft’s eyes was gone. Instead there was a wariness and a melancholy clarity, that made Greg want nothing more than to take Mycroft in his arms and hold him close. 

“Thank you. Imposed leave will do that.” 

“I’m sorry.” Greg started to reach out to Mycroft, but stopped himself. He felt unsure as to where they stood now with one another. 

“I’m not.”

Greg wasn’t sure what to say next so he fell back on traditional niceties. “Would you like a drink? I opened a nice red to have with my dinner. I thought it might make up for the crappy microwave meal.” Greg winced at his clumsy attempt at humor and continued. “I also have a decent bottle of scotch.”

Mycroft shook his head. “No, thank you.” 

“You sure? It’s the one you gave me for Christmas last year, so it’s got to be good.” Greg smiled hopefully.

“Would a pot of tea be too much trouble?” Mycroft hesitated a moment. “I’d like to talk to you.”

“No, not at all.” Greg sprung up from the sofa and hurried to the kitchenette. He threw the microwave meal in the bin. Rustling through the cupboards, while the kettle heated through, he came across the honey and whiskey. “Would you like me to make the tea into toddies? I remember you…” Greg stopped talking as he turned to find Mycroft standing in the entryway behind him. An elegant hand came out of his pocket and placed a small white plastic chit on the countertop next to Greg. 

“No whiskey. Thank you. A spot of milk will do.”

Greg looked at the token. His heart seized when he realized what it was. “That’s an AA token.” Eyes wide he turned to look at Mycroft. 

“Yes, it is.”

“Oh fuck.” His voice shook as the meaning of it sank in.

“It’s fine. You didn’t know.” Mycroft pocketed the token.

“I didn’t know.” Greg echoed. He felt like a complete idiot. “I should have known. Oh Jesus, I left you…”

“No one knew. I was very good at hiding it and you were right to leave.” 

“I shouldn’t have… Oh Christ, I should have stayed. I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be.” Mycroft swallowed. “I’d never have gotten help if you stayed.”

“Oh, My…” The kettle went off startling Greg. His hands shook as he tried to make the tea. Mycroft took the pot from him and poured in the scalding water. Still reeling from the enormity of it all, Greg followed Mycroft back to the sofa carrying the mugs Mycroft had handed him. 

Greg sat stunned as Mycroft prepared the tea. He mutely accepted a mug and took a sip. He knew Mycroft was watching and waiting for him to speak. “How… how long?”

Mycroft’s sighed. “I suppose the real answer is all my life. However, I did not start drinking in earnest until after my Uncle Rudy died. Coping with the responsibility of my sister and having no one with whom to share my fears and anxieties was too much.”

“I should have known. I should have seen.” Greg muttered. A thought struck him. “Did Sherlock know?”

“Suspected only. His suspicions were confirmed during our ‘detainment’.” Mycroft set down his mug untouched. “Nobody deceives like an addict.” Mycroft sat back and slipped the token from his pocket, studying it. “And nobody sees through deception like an addict.” Silence fell between them. “I got this when I attended my first AA meeting.” Mycroft held up the token he’d been fiddling with.

Greg mused, “You never seemed drunk to me.”

“No. I am, what you would call, a functional alcoholic.”

“Your work? Do they know?”

Mycroft grimaced. “They do now. My debriefing was a disaster and unaided by my appearing intoxicated.” Greg made a sympathetic noise. “I’m on leave while undergoing treatment. I haven’t decided if I will return.”

Greg was quiet and drank more tea. “Isn’t there a religious slant to their program? I didn’t think you’d go for that.”

“Not so much religious as spiritual.” Mycroft looked up from the bit of plastic he’d been twisting in his hands. “I did have a little difficulty at first with their phrasing. Another member pointed out to me that “higher power” could simply mean external forces or desires that would motivate me. When I stopped to think about it, I realized I had plenty of those.”

Greg nodded knowingly. “Of course, your family and our country.”

“Not only that. You, Gregory Lestrade.”

“Me?” Greg blurted, surprised by the confession.

“At my ugliest, most needy, miserable moments you said you didn’t hate me, that you wanted to be my friend, and even more. I want to be worthy of you and the friendship you offered me without reservation.” Mycroft’s mouth twisted in a wry smile. “You inspire me to try.” There was a spark of hope glittering in Mycroft’s eyes as he gazed at Greg.

Greg gulped. He felt the weight of the world settle on his shoulders. “What if you find out I’m not really, you know, all that? I’m not perfect. I’m no one special.” He stared back at Mycroft. The pounding of his heart reverberated through his body. 

“You’re special to me.” Mycroft murmured. 

Greg felt the weight on his shoulders shift. No longer a burden the weight had become like a warm blanket protecting him from the cold loneliness of the world. “You’re special to me too.” Greg replied, his gaze locked on Mycroft. He watched as Mycroft tentatively leaned closer flicking his eyes from Greg’s mouth and back up, silently asking permission. Greg closed the gap and gently pressed his lips on Mycroft’s mouth. Feeling the pressure returned, Greg let his tongue slip out to taste and Mycroft groaned softly as the kiss deepened. 

“You taste of Darjeeling and fresh cream.” Mycroft whispered as they came up for air. 

“It’s the tea.” Greg was amused. He laid soft kisses down Mycroft’s neck. 

“All I could ever taste before was whiskey,” confessed Mycroft.

Greg sat back and gazed intently at Mycroft. “What do you remember of our first time?” His hand gently cupped Mycroft’s cheek.

Mycroft bit his lip. “I remember you chasing the fear and isolation away. I remember feeling replete and safe in your arms.”

Greg gathered Mycroft close and gently kissed Mycroft’s forehead, eyes, cheeks and finally lips. He smiled. “I remember feeling the same way.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for all your lovely comments. Special thanks for vinesnweeds for supporting FTH2019 and bidding on our work. It was a wonderfully angsty prompt. While this fic is now completed both Anthea and I are thinking a small epilogue may be in order. Thank you again. Comments = love, Lav


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